


Hurry Up and Wait

by rockrose_and_thistle



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Worried Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23659258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockrose_and_thistle/pseuds/rockrose_and_thistle
Summary: Despite the words he’s written and the songs he sings, a not-insignificant percentage of his adventures with Geralt boiled down to one thing: the waiting.a v short not-edited witcher ficlet i wrote as a warm up (and because i couldn't sleep). Make of it what you will, and I hope you enjoy it!
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Hurry Up and Wait

Despite the words he’s written and the songs he sings, a not-insignificant percentage of his adventures with Geralt boiled down to one thing: the waiting.

After so many years, setting up camp is a dull and efficient affair. Now finished, Jaskier sat on the ground by the crackling hearth, his gaze trained on the lute resting against his bent knee as his legs spread out every which way. _Those two need re-stringing,_ he noted as he ran his fingers over the coarse braided wire. He could see Geralt preparing at the edges of his peripheral vision, but his gaze didn’t lift his gaze until the glint of Geralt’s silver sword caught the light from the campfire and cast it directly and across his eyelids.

“Stay,” barked the Wolf as he sheathed his silver sword, and slung his potion bag upon his shoulder.  
“These woods are treacherous, and your impatience is an occupational hazard to us both.

The bard’s eyebrows shot up in mock indignation as his jaw dropped and he scoffed dramatically.

Ignoring his theatrics, Geralt continued on while securing a leather strap from his armor tight against his side.  
“Although,” he pondered in a time-tested comedic deadpan, ”if you die, i’ll finally have an unburnt breakfast to return to.” 

“It is most certainly _not_ burnt! It’s well-done! Your Witcher constitution may survive the dangers of undercooked game, but I refuse to succumb to death by salmonella or to something equally undeserving of a lovely, heart-wrenching mournful ballad!” Just like that, Jaskier’s masterfully crafted expression fell apart as laughter tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, the faintest whisper of a smirk gracing his stoic features. “Perhaps I should commission a certain Valdo Marx to compose such a ballad on your behalf, as a precaution.” 

“Oh fuck off, Geralt.” He rolled his eyes before merrily turning his attention back to the campfire. He let his he’d hang back as his arms supported his weight and he basked in the warmth, sweeter now that the last rays of sunset have drained out of the sky.

“I’ll be back around dawn; don’t let the fire die.” Geralt called out slightly over his shoulder as his heavy footsteps faded into the woods bordering their cozy clearing.

“A most sentimental farewell,” Jaskier whisper-chuckled underneath his breath. Witcher senses and all, he didn’t expect Geralt had heard that bit.

See, Jaskier is not necessarily an impatient man, nor a nervous one, but if there’s one thought he often has to actively avoid entertaining, it’s the idea that Geralt could, very plausibly, not return. And so, waiting did not come easily to him.

Therefore, most of the time, he’ll take advantage of the solitude by making himself useful (read:keeping himself distracted). He spent his time foraging, feeding and watering Roach (he saves the sweetest apples for her though Geralt would probably accuse him of spoiling the mare), mending his poor, worn out boots (they’re truly not at all adequate hiking footwear) and composing his latest masterpiece without the inconvenience of getting on the Witcher’s nerves. 

Geralt would argue it isn’t as though he’s any less annoying about it when he *is* around. While that certainly rings true, the bard isn’t insensitive either, nor does he enjoy bearing the brunt of a grumpy Geralt before a hunt. So, he reserves the tedium of trial-and-error that tentative composing requires for just such occasions.

He has no trouble filling the time as he flits about from one activity to the next and back again, but soon enough the early hours of the twilight evening bleed into the indigo depth of the late night. (or is it early morning now?) Thus it seems that, despite his best efforts, he lies much-too-awake on his much-too-thin bedroll, and stares up at the vast night sky, his brow pulled every so slightly together by the worry for his Witcher sitting soundly atop his chest.


End file.
